The Case of the Purple ISAT Pencil
by London Holmes
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has been called in yet again to take on a new mystery, this time involving a purple ISAT pencil and the body of a dead student.
1. The Unexpected Letter

**Chapter One: The Unexpected Letter**

One misty morning in London, there were two men walking hastily down Baker Street. One was a shorter and rather plump, elderly man. The other was a tall and thin younger man. Anyone who was not a stranger to London would know these two exhausted men were Sherlock Holmes and me, Dr. John H. Watson, the most famous detective team in all of London.

"Hurry Watson! We've no time to lose!" yelled Holmes, in the lead.

I, gasping for breath, gave what sounded barley like a grunt. I had suggested calling for a cab, but Holmes had said that it would take much too long, and that if we saw a cab or something on our way (which was unlikely considering the time), we would ride in that. We had been walking steadily for about a mile, when we saw a two wheeler turn the corner about a block away and stop.

A man with brown, neatly cut and combed over hair, rose casually out of the two wheeler, almost skipping. He was wearing khaki pants and a purple vest over a white shirt, and he was carrying his coat and a briefcase. This strange man saw that Holmes and I were coming quickly toward him and the cab, so he told the cabbie to wait for them.

When the two of us sore-footed men finally reached the two wheeler, Holmes said, "Why thank you, Professor. Much applied. By the way, how were your travels?"

"Fine, thanks. And you are very welcome, Sir," replied the man in a bored voice. Then he left the cab, turning as he approached a two storied house.

After Mr. Holmes and I climbed into the two wheeler and Holmes told the driver the address of our destination, I asked, "Holmes, you astound me! How on Earth did you do that?"

Holmes had that look on his face that he always had when lost in thought. He scowled and shook his head as if disagreeing with something in his thoughts. Face relaxing a bit, he turned to me and asked in as much as a cheerful voice as he could manage, "Hum? What were you saying?"

"How did you do that?"

"Do what?" he questioned blankly.

"Figure out that the man was a teacher? And much less was traveling?"

Holmes sighed, trying to hide the pleasure that was swelling up inside him for yet another chance to show off the little shortcuts he used in his thinking process. "The man had a briefcase with some papers sticking out of it, and even from my distance I could see that there was ink writing on them. These red marks were obviously for grading the papers. Also there was a letter grade of a 'C-' written in the red ink. Not only that but, in the mans vest pocket there were two writing utensils, a shiny, well polished writing pen, and a rather thick, red ink grading marker."

"And the bit about him traveling?"

"Now, that doesn't need much explaining. He had his jacket off like men often do while traveling. His pants were wrinkled as if he hadn't changed them for over a day, and the red marks on the paper had many mistakes in his handwriting, where it was plainly clear that he was grading them on a moving cab or a train. And, besides all that, a friend of mine once pointed him out to me and told me about him."

"Now that you explain it all, it seems like child's play."

"Thank you."

I would have usually been annoyed by then, and I would have told Holmes off, but today I thought that I would give him some encouragement. For earlier that morning, things had been as crazy as when the circus came to town.

Holmes had been up, as usual, before me. He had been sitting at the table eating the breakfast that had already been brought up by the care lady. That morning's paper was lying on the table at the time. It was folded in such a way which suggested that Holmes had gone through it, and seeing nothing to his interest, had carelessly folded it and thrown it on my side of the table. He knew that I would still want to read the raises page. From what I saw of the table, it looked as if there would be porridge and tea for breakfast. No sooner had I sat at the table and picked up the paper had there been a knock at the door.

"Come in," said Holmes with a bored and drowsy tone.

The care lady came in and stated, "I am so sorry to be bothering you, but there is a note for you. The messenger said that it was important to get it to you right away." Upon placing the note on the table, she walked out of the room.

Holmes picked up the letter, looking at it curiously. Then he opened and read it. When he was finished, he handed it to me and asked, "What do you make of it, Watson?"

I studied his face before looking at the letter, looking for some kind of hint as to what he was thinking. I read the note, and if I remember correctly, it went something like this:

_Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,_

_We are sorry to say that there has been a most horrible accident earlier this morning, at Simmons Middle School. The janitors were working their regular shifts when one of them went into a classroom and found a girl, dead. We are trying to keep this as quiet as we can, so we have not brought in the police yet. I would greatly appreciate it if you could come out here and take a look, and perhaps give us a few suggestions on what to do. Nothing like this has ever happened here before._

_If you don't show up by one o'clock, then we will figure that you don't want to take on the case and will notify the police._

_Sincerely,_

_Professor Josef Sterman_

I read the letter over again, and then another time. "Why, that's horrible!" I exclaimed. "Shall I call a cab?"

"No, I don't believe that will be necessary. I don't think that I'm going to 'take on the case'."

"Holmes! Why?"

"Today I am feeling extremely lazy. I wouldn't mind a good rest."

"But these people need your help! And if you don't help they will bring in the police!"

"Yes, well, the police would be involved sooner or later anyway."

"Holmes, that's not the point. You usually jump at the thought of a being a step ahead of the police."

"Not today. I would like to rest," said my dear but sometimes foolish friend, in a calm, low, and peaceful tone. He then relaxed in his chair, putting his head back and closing his eyes.

He suddenly jumped out of his seat, knocking the chair to the side, and ran toward the front door. As he was throwing on his morning coat and hat, he called, "Aren't you coming, old chap?"

"Yes," I called back, still shaken by Holmes sudden act of eagerness.

"Then shake a leg, we've not a moment to lose. It's twelve thirty already." He was rambling off. Then, as if knowing that I was about to ask it, he said, "No, if we see a cab on the way then we will hail it. But now we're walking."

With that, not daring to ask anymore questions at the moment, I got up and headed to get my coat and hat.


	2. Sophia Sheperill

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes and I am making no money.

Thanks for reviewing!

**Hermione Holmes and Anozira: **Thanks! I know there were no middle schools in Victorian England, but this particular story is more for humor and fun (as you may have guessed given the title change). Some modern-day things will appear to give the effects I want in this story. So this story could be considered "Alternate Universe".

Thanks again for all of your encouraging comments!

**Chapter Two**

**Sophia Sheperill**

Some of the fog had cleared up by the time our cab had pulled up in front of a big two story brick building, with a rather large marble sign that read: "Simmons Middle School". The school appeared to be vacant, for when my companion and I arrived; there wasn't a soul in sight. But as the driver opened the two wheeler door for us, a tall, slim, bald-headed man in a three piece suit walked out.

Slowly but surely we made our way up the path, for Holmes was taking in every inch of the dirt ground. I looked at the ground as well as I followed Holmes, but it was long ago that I had realized that I would never be able to read half the things that Holmes could in a day, which he could detect in just a glance.

"Professor Josef Sterman?" asked Holmes as we reached the tall doors where the man was standing.

"No," said the man. "I am his butler, Martin. I will take you to Mr. Sterman. He has been very anxious to see whether you'd come or not."

"We got here as soon as we could," responded Holmes, failing to mention that he almost hadn't come.

The butler took the two of us to the headmaster of the school. As we walked in, he was pacing up and down the room. He was a shorter, overweight man of about five-three. He wore a panicked look on his face, and when we walked into the room, he hurried over to us, waddling as he walked.

"I am so glad that you could make it, Mr. Holmes," the man stuttered. He had a bit of a deep, shaky voice. He dragged his hands through his dark and thick, uncombed hair as he looked up into Holmes's tall face. "I must admit that I was starting to worry that you would not be able to make it."

"Well, I am here. Would you be so kind as to tell me in more detail what precisely has happened?"

"Yes, of course. Would you and your friend, who I believe is Dr. Watson, be so kind as to sit down?" questioned the professor, pulling up two chairs in front of a large, carved, wooden desk. He moved around to the other side of the desk to sit down in it. "Were should I start?"

"I always found that the beginning is the best," Holmes replied.

"Okay. Well, as I mentioned in my letter, the janitors were working their usual shifts this morning when they went into one of the rooms, number 120 to be exact, and found a young girl by the name of Sophia Sheperill, dead."

"How did she die?"

"I'm no medical doctor, but I believe that she was shot with a gun," he answered.

"Will you take me to the body so I can examine it?"

"Er, yes, of course. Right this way," said the Professor. And with that he rose from his feet and led us to room 120.

The room was on the other side of the school. As we passed through the hallway a chill passed down my spine from the odd quietness that seemed to be loud at the same time. The type of silence was one in which a man could hear a needle drop, but simultaneously, a loud whistling wind seemed to be blowing through one's ears. The echoes of our footsteps could be heard forever down the long thin hall.

At last we made it to the lonesome door, labeled '120 Professor Monvilyon'. My heart began to race as I tried to prepare myself for what laid behind the door, which the short, overweight headmaster was reaching his plump hand out to open. Slowly, ever so slowly, the door creaked open, testing us. Testing our imagination. Testing our bravery. The hairs on the back of my neck started to prickle and rise as goose pimples ran up and down my body.

What lay behind that testing door was what looked to me like a perfectly normal classroom. A few student desks, a teacher's desk, a large black chalkboard, and few boxes of named files on a shelf. Then I saw her.

In the middle of the room laid a lifeless, young girl, in a bloody lump on the floor. In the middle of that floor laid Sophia Sheperill—dead.


End file.
